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The Courier of News |
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The newspaperman, an elusive figure to me, but ever so present in the
neighborhood, performs his daily ritual of delivering newspapers to
countless houses, including ours. Each morning, as the clock strikes 6.30
a.m., I am roused from slumber by the unmistakable sound of his motorcycle
heralding the arrival of the daily paper. Unfailingly punctual, he braves
all weather conditions, save for rare, extraordinary circumstances that may
thwart his appointed rounds.
So regular and reliable is he that I find no need for an alarm clock to stir
me from my dreams. The neighborhood dogs, attuned to his arrival, commence
their chorus of barks, signaling that it is time for me to prepare for the
school day.
Yet, despite his steadfast presence, I have yet to lay eyes upon him. My
interaction is limited to retrieving and perusing the newspaper he
thoughtfully leaves at our doorstep. I only catch a glimpse of the man once
a month, when he arrives promptly at six-thirty in the evening to collect
payment for his diligent service.
On the first of each month, he rings the doorbell, and I am entrusted with
the responsibility of paying him. My mother ensures the money is prepared a
day in advance and instructs me on the payment process. I find myself
marveling at the efficiency of his operation as he hands me the change,
imprints the "PAID" stamp on the bill, and departs for the next household.
There is no trace of a smile on his countenance, as if his regimental rounds
of newspaper delivery have transformed him into an automaton. The image of a
well-oiled, prompt, and unsmiling machine emerges to describe him—a behavior
very much akin to that of a robot.
Nonetheless, I am deeply appreciative of his unwavering service. Thanks to
him, I am never left without my daily newspaper, a luxury that some of my
friends bemoan due to the unreliability of their own newspapermen. In that
regard, I consider myself fortunate to have the best newspaperman, one whose
efficiency and dependability never waver. |
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